


Shawn. Shawn? Shawn!

by SupremeCommanderOfPencils



Category: Psych
Genre: Banter, Food, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:38:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupremeCommanderOfPencils/pseuds/SupremeCommanderOfPencils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Gus misses his 3:47 snack?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shawn. Shawn? Shawn!

“Shawn!” Gus strode up him, glaring at the sprawled out form on the couch in front of the TV. “Did you eat all of my Fritos?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gus,” Shawn replied, never looking away from the flickering screen as he slouched against the cushions. “I would never do such a thing, one reason being that you are incredibly cranky without your 3:47 snack, and for another,” he paused, flipping the channel. “I am not hungry at the moment--unless it’s something that has a musical crunch to which my taste buds can dance, like what the happy little boy in the commercial is eating.”

“You’re not hungry because you just ate my Fritos! And I’m not cranky, Shawn!” He argued, smacking the back of Shawn’s head to get attention. Shawn jerked away and fell back on the couch as he swiped his hands defensively through the air in poorly mimicked karate moves. 

“You know that I need that snack!” Gus continued. “I can feel my blood sugar plummeting as we speak.”

Shawn pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Oh, relax my grumpy Gus, my bad-tempered buddy, my irritated imigo...my cantankerous—“

“I thought I told you to stop memorizing words from the thesaurus. And it’s amigo, not imigo.” 

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

Gus fidgeted in agitation, stabbing his finger in the air toward Shawn as he narrowed his eyes. “You’re buying me a new pack of Fritos—family sized.” He gave a firm nod of his head.

Shawn pursed his lips in thought. “Alright.” He sighed as he hung his head in a show of defeat before quickly jerking it back up and continuing. “I shall get you what you desire. A snack food so delicious, so incredibly delightful in its crunchy texture and sweet aroma of salt and carbs, that it can only be called one thing…the Frito.” He rose dramatically from his seat.

Shawn paused, running his tongue over the roof of his mouth in consideration, taking note of his taste bud’s true desire and watching Gus’s slight change of expression. “Or we can run over to the gas station and get some Ding Dongs.”

“You know that’s right.” Gus quickly agreed as they both strode for the door, bumping their fists together as they merged past the couch.

After stepping out of the Psych office, they both slid into the seats of Gus’s small blue car. Shawn furrowed his brow as he squinted around the interior of the vehicle, shifting in his seat. “So when were you going to tell me the lovely Grandma Guster is in town?”

Gus looked up from adjusting his seatbelt to frown at his friend. “Who told you that?”

Shawn said nothing as he stared back at Gus. Slowly, he lifted his hand to his head, touching his middle finger to his temple.

Gus threw him a disbelieving look. “You can’t pull your psychic act on me, Shawn.”

“Oh, come on.” Shawn said as if it should be completely obvious. He gestured broadly with his hand at the controls. “The radio station at 106.3? In respect for your reputation, I pretend that you don’t listen to that classical crap, but even you wouldn’t willingly change to an oldies station.”

Shawn ignored Gus’s annoyed look as he quickly continued, pointing a single finger at his door. “The handle has smears of nail polish on it from where I assume she gripped it in fear of your daredevil act of driving 3 miles over the speed limit; there’s the scent of her delicious homemade cookies that I simply must sample before my mouth waters enough to tend to a small garden of zucchini, and last, but not least: this seat is not in its proper and comfortable position!” he stabbed his finger toward his crunched up legs where his knees were nearly touching the dashboard.

Gus raised his eyebrows as Shawn slapped his hand around the bottom of the seat, searching clumsily for the lever. Finally locating it, Shawn gave a firm nod as he yanked up on the handle, sending his seat shooting backwards. He frowned, losing his dignified look as he glanced down and fiddled with the seat, mumbling to himself and blaming the ungraceful action on the companies who built the car. 

Finally getting his seat in the correct position, Shawn looked up, giving an awkward chuckle as he pulled his seatbelt over his shoulder and clicked it into place. Gus rolled his eyes as he put the car into drive.

They were barely down the road when Shawn suddenly called out, “Whoa! Stop, stop, stop!”

Panicked, Gus slammed on the brakes, jerking them both forward. Regaining his balance, Gus scanned the area around the front of his car, rising up slightly to see through the windshield better. “What? Did I hit something?”

He glanced over at Shawn, who was staring at something on the other side of the windshield, slowly turning his head toward Gus as whatever he was watching moved. “Do you see that?”

“What?” Gus said, following Shawn’s line of sight. “Was there a murder?”

“That could very well be the largest ice cream cone I have ever seen.”

Gus stopped searching and shot Shawn a look. “You made me slam on my brakes for some guy with an ice cream cone?”

“Dude, look at that thing!” He gestured his hand toward the man outside. “It’s absolutely ginormous!”

Gus glanced at the man before turning back to his staring friend. "Shawn! Do you really--" Gus did a double take back out the window. "Whoa..."

“Told you.”

“That thing is huge!”

They both stared at the sight, simultaneously shifting their bodies to follow the ice cream’s progress down the sidewalk until it was out of view from their window. 

“That cone must be bigger than his head.” Gus said in stunned amazement.

“I wonder how long he’s been working on that; maybe it used to be even bigger.”

“I don’t think it’s physically possible for anyone to eat that much. Even you.” Gus shook his head as he looked forward again.

Shawn stretched his neck as he tried to see the man again. He suddenly smacked Gus’s arm with the back of his hand. “Quick, go ask him where he got that.”

“What?” Gus stared at Shawn. 

“Hurry, he’s about to turn the corner…”

“Nuh uh, no way, Shawn. I’m not going to ask a complete stranger where he got his ice cream cone.”

Shawn angled his head toward his friend. “Gus, don’t be old gum stuck under the table.”

“No, Shawn.” Gus stayed firmly in his seat.

“You’re going to regret this when you discover that he’s the director that made the documentary about the cute little penguins in Antarctica that dance around and sing like that hobbit in Lord of the Rings. You’ll feel terrible about what you missed out on.”

“You’re mixing March of the Penguins with Happy Feet, and that’s not the director of either one of those movies.”

“Fine, then. If you want to just let that famous man walk away with probably the best tasting, and not to mention giant, dessert…”

Gus stared straight ahead with his chin raised, spitefully hitting the gas and jerking the car forward and back onto the road, throwing Shawn back against the seat from the force.

“All this negative energy from you, Gus. And all of it just for some Fritos?” Shawn muttered as he straightened himself back up.

“They were my Fritos, Shawn! I’ve told you a thousand times not to touch my snacks. I had them labeled and everything!”

“…Oh, you mean the label that said ‘property of Burton Guster, do not touch, eat, smell, or otherwise handle in any way, Shawn’?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, that fell off.”

“Fell off? I had that super glued on there! Super glued labels don’t just fall off!”

“After several hours of prying, they do. I broke three nails in the process. It was a lot easier when you just used scotch tape instead.”

“That’s it! I’m putting my stuff in a ten-inch thick, metal safe with a 10 digit combination.”

“2-3-6-9-0-1-2-2-7-4?”

“How’d you—oh, never mind. And stop making your ‘I’ve got a vision’ face!”


End file.
